


knock knock

by timeinthetardis



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Daddy Charming, Dark Swan Arc, Emma is a total daddy's girl even when she's dark, hints of Captain Charming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeinthetardis/pseuds/timeinthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place somewhere between 5x02 and 5x03. When Charming has his mini freak-out at the station about not being able to save Emma, he mentions how much he wishes she’d talk to him. Which made me wonder... has he been trying to to talk to her? He knows where she lives, after all, and I think Daddy Charms would try to reach out to her, rather than waiting for her to come to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	knock knock

It's late (she thinks; she hasn't bothered much with keeping track of the nighttime hours since she stopped needing to sleep) when she hears the clumsy stutter of an old engine on her street, headlights cutting through the gauzy curtains in the windows and across her walls as the vehicle pulls to a halt behind her bug. Emma frowns, vanishing the dagger back to its hiding place and moving to peer out of the nearest window.

The truck.

She takes an immediate step back as she hears the car door slam shut, echoing down the empty street with a loud crack. If the neighbors were still around, she's sure that she'd see lights popping on in the windows of the houses next to hers; but funnily enough, as soon as she'd relocated her car to the curb in front of her new home, all of the houses had emptied out within hours. The only person she's seen on this street since then has been, well, Killian (she hadn't wanted to watch him walk away down the sidewalk, head held high but shoulders slumped beneath his leather jacket, and yet-).

And now, her father.

He takes the front steps in three huge strides, the stomp of his heavy boots reverberating across the porch. “Emma, I know you're in there,” he calls through the door, hammering a fist against the wood. She watches his shadow through the curtained glass, distorted by the lights blazing up at the house from the lawn. “Open up!” Another rapid-fire series of knocks, the staccato rhythm shaking the doorknob slightly. “Emma, please.”

And it's funny, really, but she _wants_ to let him in. She wants to give him a tour of her house, show off the extra nursery she'd done up for her little brother so that he could come stay with her sometimes, to see see how he'd react to the wall of family photos she'd managed to put together over her fireplace. She wants him to say _“You've done a good job with the place, sweetheart,”_ the way a normal father would when he sees his kid's new home. She wants to drink hot chocolate with cinnamon in front of the television, watching one of the god-awful monster movies they are both completely addicted to. Mostly, though, she wants to run into his arms, to let him cradle her head and promise her that it will be all right, _everything will be all right_ , she's still her but better and they'll stop with all the Save-Emma bullshit and everything will go back to normal (but better, because _she is better_ now). She wants him to support her, to comfort her, the way he always has, ever since they'd first found each other.

 _Well, not always,_ she reminds herself, hands clenching into fists as she watches him steadily pound on the door. _He's like everyone else. He_ _failed_ _me._

“Emma, I'm so sorry,” he calls, as if he can read her thoughts, and she jolts backwards, nearly stumbling over the expensive rug on the floor. The knocking fades to silence. She can see his outline through the curtains, palms flat against the cool glass. “I didn't save you,” he says, and his voice is softer now, almost- ashamed? “I'm your father, I should be able to protect you, but I- I can't ever seem to save you, and I'm sorry.” His voice drops even lower, and even with her newly-supernatural hearing, she takes a tiny step closer to the door. “I'm so sorry.”

Silence stretches over the house, taut against her skin.

“Please, talk to me, sweetheart,” her father finally says, his forehead hitting the door with a soft thump. “Please.”

She hesitates, because- she hadn't been lying, when she'd first appeared at the diner. She has a plan, a way to punish them, to right the wrongs they'd committed against her. Vengeance. _Justice_ , even.

And yet...

“I know you're still in there,” her father says, returning to his earlier method of non-stop knocking. “The real Emma, my daughter, she's in there somewhere, or you wouldn't have brought Killian here,” and of course, of course that's how he knows where she's living, of course Killian told him, and it isn't like she's keeping it a secret, but it _burns_ to know that Killian ran straight to her parents, to plot something against her and-

“Dave, stop,” Killian's voice rings out through the quiet, and she can't help the tiny, traitorous spark of hope somewhere in the area where her heart ought to be, that maybe, _maybe_ , he's reconsidered what he said earlier, even though she knows (she _knows_ ) he's here to take her father home.

Her father turns, his shadow rippling across the curtain. “I'm not going anywhere until I see her, so save your breath.”

“I understand the feeling, mate, really I do, but-” Killian begins, climbing up the stairs to join David on the porch, but David cuts him off.

“But nothing, then. I'm her father,” and his voice cracks, ever so slightly, over the word, “and I'm not leaving my daughter here all on her own. I have to talk to her.”

“It's not her, not right now,” Killian says, and Emma nearly shrieks with frustration. “We need a plan.”

“She's my daughter, not my enemy,” David retorts, but Killian's shadow shakes his head.

“She's trapped in there, and we have to get her out, but she's ahead of us, you see?” He hesitates, hand reaching to rub his ear, and the familiar habit _hurts_. “She thinks this is who she is. It's going to take more than a heart-to-heart with Dad to bring her back, mate.”

The two men stare at each other for a long time, profiles dark against the glass. She's just wondering what they'd do if she popped up next to them (or maybe appeared sitting on the railing, as if she's been there the whole time- or maybe in one of the chairs- the whole magical transportation thing is seriously her favorite part of this whole business), when her father takes a step away from the door.

“You're right. Let's get back to town,” he says, quietly, and starts down the stairs. Killian hesitates for a moment, and she can almost feel his gaze on her, blazing through the gauzy curtain. Swinging around, he takes off after David, and within moments the truck roars to life. She listens as the rattle of the old engine fades away down the road, replaced by the usual silence of the abandoned street.

She finds herself in front of the fireplace, eyes on the assortment of pictures she'd magicked up from the loft and the diner and everywhere else they'd been stashed. A tiny Henry, sitting in his castle on the hill, storybook pressed to his chest. Her father, arm draped over her shoulders, both of them leaning against the squad car. Her mother, baby Neal in her arms, crammed into a booth at Granny's with the whole family gathered in close. Killian with his eyes on her as she gazes down at a rose in her hand, blushing in the soft pink dress her mother had loaned her for their first date.

Their first date.

She feels a smile stealing over her face. Killian's looking a bit haggard, to be honest. Perhaps he could use a good meal, with good company.

 _Just like old times_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to stay updated on my writing (or join the fun of constant CS blogging), please feel free to check out my [tumblr](http://in-each-place-and-forever.tumblr.com/) and/or my [writing tumblr](http://distinct-elements-of-speech.tumblr.com/).


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